


The Innocent Sleep

by oddtwist



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Beautiful Suffering, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:09:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddtwist/pseuds/oddtwist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 1 x 10. It was not over for Red after he'd killed Anslo, but he manages to get out and is nursed back to health.<br/>Exploring Red/Liz with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Innocent Sleep

He awoke to darkness, but somehow knew that he was not alone. A throbbing pain pounded against his skull when he tried keeping his eyes open to focus on the vague shapes in the room. Bright flashes of light relentlessly stabbed his brain while a wave of nausea washed over him. He coughed weakly, swallowed hard to fend off the spasms in his stomach. He was too weak to handle another bout of vomiting. He vividly remembered the last time the convulsions had tortured his body, not too long ago. The sour smell of the contents of his stomach still lingered in the air.

Someone was there, quietly moving in the room, a soothing hand on his forehead, soon replaced by a cool piece of cloth. Small fingers touched his arm, checking his pulse, gently touching him, comforting, caring. Cool water trickled on his lips, slowly finding its way into the dryness of his mouth. He eagerly licked the fluid from his chapped lips onto his leathery tongue. He tried to speak, express his gratitude for this act of kindness but the world began to spin dangerously, causing him to lie very still to fight off the vertigo.

“Don’t speak.” A women’s voice, a mere whisper far away, fading.

He remembered now. He had been hurt.

He distinctly remembered the triumph in Anslo’s eyes when his first rib finally gave way under his fists. The initial assault had been directed at his head as retribution for the bullet that ruined the Brit’s good looks, but when Anslo was sufficiently satisfied with the bloody mess on the face that refused to show any emotion, he’d turned his attention to other vulnerable parts of his anatomy. Anslo wanted to hear him scream, but he had simply denied him that pleasure. At least that’s what he hoped he’d done – one cannot be held accountable for ones actions while under the influence of drugs.

His senses still seemed enhanced. The pain in every muscle a constant reminder of his ordeal, but even sounds and smells were more emphatically intensified. The distant buzz of traffic in the street the equivalent of a bullhorn inside his eardrums. A sweet scent of flowers all around him; perfume maybe or -more likely- soap she’d used to rub off all the blood. The fragrance was almost strong enough to hide the smell of iodine and the whiff of detergent from the cool sheet that covered him. He concentrated on his breathing, hoping he would drift into darkness again where sounds and smells and the ever present pain would no longer exist. But although his mind wandered, away from the pain, sleep would not come.

 _Monster_ she’d called him. Was he a monster for doing what he had to do, to keep her alive? It was so difficult to get her to trust him, when he could not tell her the truth. Had it been a mistake to enter her life and stay close to her? Had he put her in more danger than if he’d kept his distance?

He was not naïve. His cooperation with the FBI would not go unnoticed. A reaction was unavoidable; he expected as much. And sure enough, Fitch had taken him from his world of relative safety and had disciplined him like a disobedient schoolboy. The headmaster had hired the school bully to spank and humiliate him. And when Red had killed the bully, Fitch was not pleased.

“What am I supposed to tell my associates, Ray?” he’d asked, rubbing his chin with a regretfull glance at Red. “You have an annoying talent for putting me in an awkward position.” He spoke not in anger, but with the hint of bitter regret - the mentor had lost control over his pupil. “You kill one of our best men when you are my prisoner? Why did you do that Ray? I already promised to let you go. We’re willing to give you another chance. Wouldn’t you call this an act of provocation? A slap in our face?”

Red remained silent. Nothing he would say could explain his reasons without putting Elizabeth Keen's life in danger. He'd already told Fitch that his cooperation with the FBI had nothing to do with their agreement, but he could see the doubt in the old man's eyes. 

Fitch did not pursue the matter. He decided to give his old friend a final warning. He told the doctor to prepare another injection, a cocktail that would make him remember their meeting for rest of his days. A reminder of what would happen if he crossed the line again. They would never kill him, but Fitch made sure that Red fully understood that he would spend the rest of his natural life as their prisoner if he continued to upset his associates in future.

So the doctor had given his patient another shot and they left him there, sitting beside Anslo’s corpse until he could no longer hold his body upright and slumped to the floor. It took an act of will to retrieve the phone from the pocket of Garrick's combat outfit before the violent tremors prevented him from keeping his hands steady enough to dial her number.

By the time she found him, he was a wreck, curled up on the floor next to Anslo, arms clutching at his aching body, shivering uncontrollably. The raw, agonizing pain completely consumed him. Violent twitches and jolts tore at his limbs; the tightness in his chest suffocating, rendering him incapable of uttering a single sound when his mind frantically screamed out in anguish.

Every inch of his skin was tender and sore under her touch, but in a joint effort, they made it to her car. He crawled into the back and lay as still as possible, stifling his moans in the softness of the seat. His senses craved numbness, but his mind would not allow him to sink into oblivion. He was painfully conscious during the entire journey, perceiving every swerve and road bump as another assault on his body. When they finally arrived at their destination, she was by his side just in time to save him from suffocating in his own vomit.

*

He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he was not in pain. He was sailing on his ocean with Lizzie. He stood near the bow of the boat, holding the shroud, smiling at Lizzie at the helm. She waved at him. Her eyes sparkled in the evening sun, radiating such beauty and youth that it left him in awe. He just stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The warm breeze on his face, the rhythm of the waves rocking them gently: enraptured, as he was watching the single most precious thing in his life.

He lost track of time; had failed to notice the dark clouds forming behind her like a giant ink stain, rapidly growing larger and coming their way. The clouds enveloped the sun and covered them in darkness. Lizzie was still waving at him, unaware of the threat that was closing in. He yelled at her to seek shelter in the cabin, but she did not hear him. It seemed like she was frozen in time, smiling and waving, the wind playing with her dark hair, her eyes full of joy and love. She did not hear his cries, for the storm had already reached them and smothered all sound in a raging fury. He called her name over and over again, but the words got trapped inside his throat.

_Lizzie!_

He stood frozen on the spot - could only watch in horror how the dark clouds turned into heavy grotesque claws that stole her away from him and pulled her into the boiling sea. One last cry of despair burst from inside him and this time he was heard.

She was right beside him, murmuring quietly. He was still too shocked to make out the words, but they were soothing sounds, bringing him back to reality. A painful reality, but relief surged through his mangled body when he recognized where he was. It was just a nightmare - he was still here in the safety of the room, with the shadow of a small shape hovering beside the bed, comforting him with silent whispers. He was only vaguely aware of her hands on his arm and the little sting that followed. He was beyond caring about the drugs she administered, as long as it stopped the excruciating pain in his head that threatened to engulf him and drag him into insanity.

Later, he did his best to ignore the intrusive soft cloth rubbing on his skin, cleaning body fluids and cooling him down. The way her hands worked on him, wonderfully discreet, only emphasized his misery. Fitch had expertly robbed him of his dignity, reduced him to a helpless incapacitated shell, not even able to control the basic bodily functions - he'd given him a horrific taste of what he had coming if he ever crossed the line again.

She gave him what he needed without having to ask. She gave him medicine to help ease the pain. She held his hand when the drugs were driven from his body in violent cramps, cleaned him up and changed his bedclothes when it was over. She fed him broth that would strengthen him - patiently forced him to finish the bowl when the first two sips already made him sick to the stomach.

When he was strong enough to finally make his way to the bathroom, she was there to prevent him from tumbling head-first to the floor, his body still too weak, not yet adjusted to an upright position. She did what was necessary, almost getting away with pretending not to notice the awkwardness about the more embarrassing proceedings of everyday life.

She left him in peace most of the time. It was strangely comforting to hear the regular whisper of a page being turned and the almost inaudible sound of her breathing at his bedside. In an odd way, he found solace in the fact that there was someone sitting at his beside, watching over him. It was a novel experience that took him straight back to his childhood.

Soon he would be well enough to send her away. The worst was over and he would disappear for a while. When … _if_ he returned, she would never speak to him about this episode between them. He had known her long enough to be sure of that.

“Would you like some water?” she asked when she noticed he was watching her.

His stare made her slightly uncomfortable, which was a first since they’d moved into the small room a few days ago. The intimacies they had shared belonged to another time, an alternate universe. The drugs had left his system and her patient -though bruised and badly beaten- would recover.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” His eyes held hers for a moment longer. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” she said and pushed her glasses further up her nose to continue reading.

“What do we know about Lizzie?”

“She tried contacting me before I had the number annulled but I did not speak to her again. I trust she is trying to cope with what happened in the safety of her home.”

He frowned at her because they both knew that her home was not the safest place to be.

Red wondered how Lizzie was coping. He had seen the look on her face when he had given himself up. He had seen realization dawn on her, when it was obvious that he was willing to give his life for her. If she did not trust him before, she would now. But with that trust, she would also seek the answers to all those unspoken questions. With her father no longer available to answer them, she would come to Red.

She was never far from his mind, wherever he was. In the beginning it bothered him that he’d let this young women get under his skin. He had known her all her life from afar, but when he was finally able to speak to her face to face and saw the dedication she had for her work, caught the zeal in the tingling of her eyes, witnessed her courage in a job that was not for the faint of heart, he soon became impressed with her. Despite her resentment, he was drawn to her. He looked forward to her company, enjoyed teaching her the tricks of the trade and had grown accustomed to the small intimacies that slowly unfurled between them.

He was careful never to take advantage of her tentative trust in him. He was the one who had driven a wedge between her and Tom and off late, she turned to him whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on. It was the natural thing to do. Here he was, telling her that the only person in the world she could truly rely on was Raymond Reddington and he had proven it to her on several occasions, while her colleagues and her husband had not been able to refute that statement. On the contrary: their behavior had only caused her to regard everything they said and did with the utmost distrust.

He could no longer deny that his affection for her had slowly begun to develop into an obsession. The emotional attachment he’d avoided for the greater part of his life had settled in his veins for some time now, slowly but surely penetrating his heart, where his feelings for her evolved into something else entirely. Something that could never be, for he had done things in order to protect her, that would repulse her. And he would do those things again. He did not regret any of it. Not even killing her father.

He shifted restlessly on the bed. He needed to hear her voice again - needed to know that she was alright as soon as he was fit enough to walk to the nearest phone booth. He would let her know that he was never far from her - warn her, let her know he would be there for her when the time came.

But it would have to wait. He settled in the pillows, cringing slightly as he felt his headache return with full force, fed by troubled thoughts of Lizzie.

He so wished he could sleep. Sleep without pain, without nightmares and thoughts of a troubled future. Sleep the sleep of innocence as if he were still a boy - just one more time.


End file.
